


Wednesday, September 17, 2014

by gisho



Category: Hetalia - Fandom
Genre: Current Events, Gen, historical events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 15:56:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4672601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gisho/pseuds/gisho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England frets about the upcoming Scottish independence referendum. Scotland is more helpful than he means to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wednesday, September 17, 2014

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted September 15, 2014. Although the original commentors described this work as 'tactful', it might not be to the taste of people with strong feelings about how things turned out on the 18th.

  
When the door bangs, England doesn't look up; anyone who could get into this house, past all his complicated defences, is no one he need be afraid of. He settles the teapot comfortably in the space at the center, squints, and rotates it a quarter-turn, moving the duty-free bottle of ouzo aside to make room. The afternoon sunlight glints very nicely off its shoulder.

There are heavy footsteps. Another bang. Then Scotland says, "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Oh, I don't know. Killing time." He really should have taken height into account, he decides. Biggest in the centre, that will make the bottles harder to knock over.

"By ..." Scotland emerges to his right, blocking the sunlight. "Making a maze out of whiskey bottles?"

"Most of it's gin. And there's some sherry on the left. Wonderful stuff."

"Please tell me that teapot is full."

"Oh, yes."

Scotland snatches it out of the arrangement, completely ruining the symmetry and ignoring England's growl. He eyes the mugs that make up the border, then pulls out the pastel blue one with the adorable kittens. "How drunk are you already? I thought we'd been through this. Can't do your job properly three sheets to the wind, affects your judgement, running from problems instead of facing up to them, all that shite."

England wraps his arms around his knees. He probably shouldn't have bothered with the suit and tie, but the butterflies in his stomach have been too thick to let him eat, and pretending he's going to go in to work at some point is a comfort. "I havn't touched it," he admits. "Saving that for tomorrow."

"Oh. That." Scotland settles himself across most of the sofa. England spares a moment to be grateful that his brother went for trousers today; he doesn't think he has the energy to move to the armchair to avoid an eyeful.

Instead he forces himself down to cross-legged, which is marginally more dignified. "Either we can celebrate, or I can drown my sorrows. What are you doing here, anyway? Shouldn't you be in Edinburgh?"

"Aye, but I thought I should drop by and make sure you weren't making an arse of yourself. Clearly you needed it." He fills the _World's Greatest Dad_ mug and passes it over, almost knocking down the Laphroaig.

What's his game? He should be calling England nasty names by now, that's how these conversations tend to go. Four hundred years they've been stuck with each other, thousands they've been neighbours, if you count their predecessors whose memories were folded in to the back of their minds as people came together and the world started to shrink. But here he is, actually looking _worried_ , as if he gave a damn what England thought. England gulps down his tea. It's too hot and - "Milk," he says.

"Probably in the refrigerator. Unless you need to run to the shops."

Three dirty looks and two long-suffering sighs later they're at the kitchen table, teapot between them, milk and sugar set out, crumbs from the nice Marks and Spencer biscuit assortment already decorating Scotland's beard. England determinedly doesn't look at the pictures. He really should take them down, it's sheer masochism to keep pictures of everyone he's lost in here. Not lost, not really, India and Hong Kong and Zimbabwe are alive and well (for varying values of 'well') but they aren't _his_ anymore and he can't help but wince at that thought, even though he know it's for the best, these are things he shouldn't -

The slap only stings a little. "Hey. You sure you're not drunk?"

"Absolutely," he snaps back, and resists the urge to throw his tea in his brother's face.

"You're brooding. Stop it."

"It's not exactly voluntary."

"Why are you so worked up? It could still go either way, understand. The United Kingdom might not come apart like a chocolate teakettle tomorrow-"

"You're _not helping!_ " England takes a deep breath, lays his hands flat on the table, takes another. "Look, it's just - it's a lot to get my head around. Even the possibility. Don't tell me you're not worried. You don't know how it will go, do you?"

Scotland narrows his eyes, but then a sigh escapes him, and his shoulders slump. "Nae notion. Makes my brain hurt to try to think aboot. Worse than guessing at a Six Nations match. You know how it is."

"Divided public opinion, exactly." England rubs his temple. "Isn't it just bloody maddening waiting for a bunch of humans, some of whom have trouble deciding what kind of tea to get, get to decide whether to break up a three-hundred-year marriage?"

Scotland slaps the table hard enough to rattle the teacups. "One, it's no _marriage_ , two did you just call _my people_ a bunch of - "

"No! No insult intended! Same thing applies to mine!"

His brother must be in an exceptionally good mood at the prospect of independence, because he accepts this and settles back down. "You could try trusting them," he offers, brows knitting together. "Humans aren't that stupid."

"Oh, I don't know, they've elected some right wankers." England takes another calming gulp of tea. "Besides, well - "

"Well?"

"It's just ..."

"Just what?"

He takes a deep breath. "It's, well, we've had this - arrangement a long time, gotten used to it, as it were - we've done a lot together. Not all of it good, I admit that, but when you look at the sheer scale of the accomplishments - not bad for a little island nation, right? Or, well, three nations - but still, that hasn't mattered in the crunch ...."

"Go on." He's grinning now. It's maddening.

"I'llmissyou." It comes out in a rush.

Scotland stares. Then he puts his face in his hands. "England?"

"Yes?"

"I'm _not going anywhere._ "

"But ..." England wishes that didn't come out so damn _plaintive_. There's no cause for anxiety about this; he'll have to stiff-upper-lip his way through tomorrow regardless.

"There is _half_ a chance I'll be leaving the kingdom. Half. Could go either way. There is _no_ chance I'll be leaving Britain. Not even if Spain offers to trade for the sake of the oil money."

England can't suppress a chuckle at that image. "What, not tempted by the chance to see that great big yellow thing in the sky there are so many rumours about?"

"Ginger, remember?" Scotland runs a hand through his hair. His expression turns serious. "You've nae been the best of neighbours, England. But we're stuck with each other. Could be much worse."

England blinks hard. It wouldn't do to show any emotion at the idea that Scotland might, in some small and obscure way, enjoy his company. "We'll muddle through somehow," he declares. "And who knows, it might be that nothing changes at all."

"There's always that." Scotland, with a martyred look, takes the last piece of shortbread. "But you had an absolute fit back in ninety-seven, and look how that turned out. Pretty well, all things considered."

England shrugs. "I think you've scared everyone into devo-max, at least," he admits. "If that was what you were going for."

"You ken just how much influence we have, England."

"Yes, yes, none whatsoever these days." He waves a hand. "I know. Nothing personal. None of it's personal."

"Is that so?"

"Aye."

Scotland snorts. "Well, if it's any comfort, I'll not stop making fun of your football team whatever happens tomorrow."

"Fair enough. And I'll keep giving you book tokens for Christmas, just for the look on your face if your floor collapses under the To-Be-Read pile."

"And someday I will teach you to appreciate bagpipes."

"Not a chance. Wales has been playing the harp at me for seven centuries, and I don't like it any better."

"Ha! Where is he, anyway? Would've through you'd drag him over here for moral support."

"Oh, he said something about buggering off to Belfast. Figured - " Figured Northern Ireland needed the moral support the more, and he's probably right, and England is not going to think about that right now. No. If he thinks too hard about Ireland, he really _will_ embarrass himself. It doesn't hurt at all day to day, it's just what will be happening tomorrow that's making the old ache spring up again. He really was a bastard back then. He doesn't blame Ireland. He just had thought, really thought, that Hong Kong would be an absolute end to losing family.

Well, at least there won't be any bloodshed this time.

"Hey, you're brooding again," Scotland says, and raps him on the knuckles. "Wake up."

"Sorry. Just lost in thought."

His brother's expression softens. "What've you got to think about?"

"Oh, just my entire sense of identity and self-worth." He glowers pointlessly at the table. "I never did apologise to you for half the stupid things I did."

"Half? You going to try?"

"Hardly worth it now, is it? We'd just get in a fistfight, and I would have to answer some very awkward questions from the PM tomorrow because you would probably give me a black eye. Traditional by now, isn't it?" He can't seem to stop the words from spilling out. "Remember Jamie One-and-Six? And that time right after the coronation, when we got in a bar fight and you and that cloth merchant from Nice ganged up on me, and the barmaid hit you over the head with a stool?"

"Aye, and you spent the rest of the night sobbing in you beer about Bess, and everyone assumed you meant some dead doxy."

That thought grates, but he isn't trying to start a fight right now. "She gave me this house, you know."

"You've mentioned. Often."

"I like it here. It's a nice place. City of dreaming spires, and all."

"Aye. Center of the island. And you'll keep on flirting with the American students and going down to the Bird and Baby of an afternoon to be mysterious at people right up until Judgement Day, whatever happens tomorrow." Scotland claps him on the shoulder. "It's all politics, England. We'll weather it."

There is something deeply wrong about the idea that Scotland is comforting him right now, but he's never been too worried. Things will work out for him, somehow, whether he stays or goes. This is a modern world, and there will be increased regional autonomy, and there won't be anyone with claymores. But Scotland has never been the worrying type. England takes a deep breath. "Not a bad idea, that."

"Hm?"

"Bird and Baby. Past time for lunch. We'll go get lunch." He nods decisively. "Your treat. Get rid of some of those pounds in your pocket while they're still useful."

That gets exactly the howling protest he expected. England knows his brother well. And he knows, as well, that the argument will be bitter enough and complicated enough to last them all the way to the pub. Keep their mind off things. But he knows, as well, that it will not stop them having lunch together. Some things don't change.

And the thought that, whatever happens tomorrow, they'll be arguing like this for centuries - it's the closest to a comforting thought he's had all day.

\---


End file.
